


looking into the heart of light, the silence

by leeloo6



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Character Death, Feelings, Happy Ending, Love, M/M, Pining, Resolved Sexual Tension, Unresolved Sexual Tension, lots of feelings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-01
Updated: 2015-06-01
Packaged: 2018-04-02 09:29:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,496
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4054996
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/leeloo6/pseuds/leeloo6
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It’s paradoxical how he is the only one who doesn’t make you feel like an alien, since your eccentricity stands out the most when compared to his human heart. But somehow, against all odds, he manages to bring you to his level of warmth, he makes you feel almost human. You don’t know how to live without it. You don’t.</p>
            </blockquote>





	looking into the heart of light, the silence

_someone who knows too much has made a nest inside your skin_  
_and left you hollow, searching for a home you don’t have_  
_there is silence, and then there is silence again_  
_speak to me, I am waiting here, at the end of your words, at the beginning of your flight_  
_my feet are roots reaching to the core of your earth_  
_and yet my hands are tied_

\--  
It baffles you, the way his presence lights up over you in a way that you’d forced yourself to forget while you were away. You hadn’t given it much thought; you were distracted by almost dying, and somehow it all faded compared to the thought that you’ll simply return and resume the story from where you ended it, from where Moriarty ended it. But these moments, scattered across your timeline, expanding and expanding until your consciousness can hardly envision anything else, these moments are your making and your destruction, because he is gone now, and inevitably, you are losing.

That day, the pool, a dread you didn’t know how to shake off when you were about to lose him. The way it all shaped into focus in that moment, as if you’d been blind to yourself all that time. The day he saved your life, and even further behind, the day you met, when for a second you were uncertain whether he could ever be fixed. And then the thrill of the chase, dun colours turned into explosions, something that you used to force yourself into with cocaine- it was all better with him, and for a while you just thought it was better with company, any company, but you were wrong. You think you were wrong. You’re not very sure anymore. The flat is empty and dull and you’ve forgotten how to be alone.  
\--

You keep rewinding memories, opening all these doors from your palace to let the feeling slide out so only the unfolding scenes remain, bland and colourless, devoid of any emotion. You can’t do it. Your longing is like an entity of its own, wolfing down your resources, constantly feeding on his absence. You move his chair out of the way. You consider moving places, then you spend an entire afternoon sulking at your own absurdity. You feel just like before- the loss, the refractory period, inertia gnawing at your bones and making it seem to last forever. It won’t, you repeat to yourself. Nothing ever does.

(but the wedding, _the wedding_ , loneliness distilled and turned into your drug of choice, just like before. it’s paradoxical how he is the only one who doesn’t make you feel like an alien, since your eccentricity stands out the most when compared to his human heart. but somehow, against all odds, he manages to bring you to his level of warmth, he makes you feel almost human. you don’t know how to live without it. you don’t.)

\--

All the moments that you could’ve triggered, strings of possibilities never stilled into reality, left oscillating between presence and absence- the way he looks in a suit beneath your furtive glances, the way he gets all bossy when he pulls rank, and then all the times he almost gave himself away, because you could never dare assume anything about his feelings, but the attraction, it was always there. All the moments when you could’ve taken advantage of that, but you didn’t, because it was never the only thing that you wanted from him, and those other things were always too incomprehensible to you to risk losing. 

Now you find yourself absurdly regretting it all, in these small moments of insanity when you indulge yourself in old addictions and thought habits. _I could never be what anyone wants._ You should’ve taken what you could, before it was too late, before the hours turned into unbearable stretches of time marked only by his absence. _He isn’t even that far away._ But somehow, that only makes it worse.

\--

Silent Wednesday evening; no case interesting enough to catch your attention. You stroll through your mind palace, stumbling upon childhood memories, things you’ve yet to forgive. For all your memories on John, John, _John_ , you don’t have a room for him. He’s an undercurrent, an accent that tints all your memories bright and alive with both lust for life and quiet heartache. You find him in the silent retreat of the attic in your old mansion, where you used to play as a child, in the interludes between the other kids’ insults and derision, in the bright rush of cocaine, in the comfort of dreamless sleep. Here, in the empty halls of your palace, he is the canvas where your life bursts into colour.

You wish you could delete him sometimes, you really do. But that would mean losing the very foundation of your life, and you’re afraid it would all crumble to dust if he were to disappear. And besides that, why would you give up on the best thing that’s ever happened to you?

A knock on the door; mrs Hudson is asleep and you usually don’t bother to answer the door, but it might be a promising case and you need that now more than ever. Instead of a client, though, you’re faced with a dizzy-looking John leaning against the doorway.

‘’Ello,’ he greets you. ‘Think I lost my keys, will you…’ He gestures vaguely towards the room. You open your mouth to be the Reasonable One once again- even though you know that you’ve long lost the right to that position- and remind him that Mary’s home, meaning that losing his keys in no way forfeits access to his own apartment, but he’s already in before you can say a word, making you realize a bit too late that what he said didn’t mean what he said at all.

-

You wake up sometimes, in the middle of the night, and contemplate your decisions. The part of you that screams for the thrill of it all, silenced down for her, for _this_. The routine of work and home life, all predictable patterns and worn-out evenings when nothing happens except the two of you. And it’s nice, it’s what you wanted. You love this woman, and sometimes you think you could even die for her. The problem is, you’re not sure you want to _live_ for her, not anymore, not since…

You curse his name, then, with anger and affection, because him being not dead was all you’d wanted, but his presence looms over you when he’s alive as much as when he wasn’t, rich with possibility. You tried to shrug it off, leaving your old skin behind when you stepped into this marriage, but his fingerprints are steady there; he and all he stands for, a merciless call against these dun-stained days, this slow death. You want to be Mary’s husband, you want to be a doctor and help people and immerse in the sour-sweet satisfaction of living an ordinary life, doing your best every day. But you also want to run through London with Sherlock and witness every single piece of his mind turn into fireworks when he starts talking, and you want to be his… everything. He’s a thunderstorm and you want to be there for every second of it.

You wake up sometimes, in the middle of the night, his face in front of your eyes like he’s hovering above you, right there, waiting. Questioning. _Is this what you wanted, John?_ You want to pull him down by his ridiculous collar, make him taste you and show him what you really wanted. You usually end up fucking Mary instead, and god when she smiles at you like that you swear that she knows exactly what’s going on in your mind, and those are the moments when you’ve never loved or hated her more. You feel helpless, at the mercy of these two people who made you, who complete you; you love them, and yet all you can do is choke down the battle in your mind and keep distancing yourself from both of them.

You only call Mike because there’s no one else that you can get drunk with, and by the end of the evening the whole world’s smudged its edges and your blood feels as sweet as candy floss. You find yourself taking a cab to 221B. By the time you realize you don’t live there anymore, it’s already too late. 

\--

He’s standing where his sitting chair used to be, looking confused, like someone took all the furniture from his childhood room and turned it upside down.

‘Why’d you…’

‘It was getting in the way.’

‘Was _I_ getting in the way?’ he slurs and sinks into the sofa with a drunken laugh. 

‘No, you weren’t _getting in the way_ ,’ you roll your eyes, ‘now John, you should really go home-‘

‘Mmmm.’ He makes a sound of displeasure. ‘Don’t wanna. You miss me?’

‘Yes, terribly so,’ you roll your eyes, ‘come now, we gotta get you back to Mary,’ but you realize that’s too much of an ambitious goal before you even finish your sentence. 

‘So you miss me. I knew ittttt….’ He points an accusing finger towards you and you would laugh at how ridiculous he looks if you didn’t feel like taking the whole world to pieces just so this man could be yours. ‘I knew it, _Shurrrlock._ ’ He slurs your name and this time, you can’t hold back a smile.

‘C’mon, let’s get you upstairs.’ You manage to drag him to his old bedroom- you’ve thought about finding a new flatmate, but why would you want a flatmate who isn’t John?- so the room’s how he left it, except empty of all the things that made it his, the things that could remind you of his presence. You sit on his bed until he falls asleep, carefully avoiding any part of him that might touch any part of you, especially his hand that keeps reaching out, searching. You tell him that you’re gonna call Mary. He mumbles himself to sleep, repeating your name at least four times in the process, and your heart oscillates between fondness and exasperation, because he chose this for himself, he chose her, and there’s nothing you want more than his happiness.

(except his happiness tied to you, you- )

It takes you four hours to fall asleep. He’s going to wake up, realize that it was a mistake, then leave again.

\--

You meet a few days after, on a rainy morning in Tesco. Something warm pools in your chest when you see Sherlock trying to find the right brand of milk, something like nostalgia, something like the world gone wrong. You’ve had trouble not thinking about it since you crashed on Baker Street, because that must mean something, right? People make mistakes, but you’ve spent enough time with Sherlock to know that they’re rarely arbitrary. 

‘That’s the one,’ you say, handing him the milk that you always used to buy for the two of you. ‘Forgot already?’

‘John,’ he says, taken aback. ‘Thank you.’ He nods shortly, a smile playing on his lips, and you can’t restrain yours. The whole silence thing is terribly awkward, just like it was in the morning after you crashed his place (of which you don’t remember much, but enough to cringe at the memory), and god, you miss the times when silence was just silence, comfortable and unassuming.

‘So…got any case on hand?’

‘Stolen goldfish,’ he says. ‘A thousand of them, to be more specific.’

‘Well, that seems like a great alternative to lottery,’ you joke. ‘Any luck finding the culprit?’

‘Probability, John, not luck. You, as well as the thief, seem to have failed your statistics class. What is the probability of owning an aquarium big enough for a _thousand_ fish? The purchase was tediously easy to locate. Lestrade’s on the job as we speak.’

‘So that’s why you’ve got the time for shopping,’ you say as you both head for the pay desk.

 

‘Time, no. Need, yes. Mrs Hudson refuses to do my shopping anymore after she found the fingers in her refrigerator.’ You look at him suspiciously. ‘What? There was no more space in mine!’ he defends himself.

You can’t help but laugh affectionately, remembering body parts, something different every day. Like the daily news- fairy macabre, but far more proximal. The incident probably primes something nostalgic huddled in your chest, because otherwise you would watch your next words more carefully.

‘Let me know when you find another case.’ You witness his eyes widening, perplexion painting his features, and for a moment you almost believe that he misses it all as much as you do. Soon enough, though, his expression turns from surprised to all-knowing once again, like he suddenly understands.

‘See you around, John,’ he smirks. Do you seriously spend your nights awake because of this git? You laugh quietly to yourself and head for home.

\--

The thug’s standing in front of you, arms crossed to his chest. He looks too dim-witted to have come up with all of this, with his small, empty eyes and crooked smile, but now he’s enjoying it as if he was in charge, which you suppose he is, because he is the one giving you a choice.

‘So, which one’s it gonna be?’ he asks. The field is barren, now deserted even by the last light of the sunset, making you feel of far too little significance to be holding two lives in the palms of your hands. Sherlock and Mary are tied to posts: Sherlock to the right, Mary to the left. They’re sedated, but conscious enough to be aware of what’s happening. You want to go to both of them, tell them that it’s going to be alright, that as usual, you have no idea what’s happening, but that you’ll figure a way out, because that’s how it must always happen. The problem is, you don’t really believe in that anymore. ‘You save your wife, your friend dies. You save him, she dies,’ he grins. 

‘Don’t listen to him, John,’ Sherlock tells you from afar, his voice carried by the biting stripes of wind. ‘Whichever of us you choose, _that_ one’s going to die. Land mines don’t work the way this idiot think they work. You know what to do.’

 _‘Don’t choose me,’_ he means. You sure as hell hope he’s got a better plan, because the thug’s holding the remote in his hand and you know he can kill the three of you with one press of a button, and frankly, this is not how you’d always wanted to die.

With the gun at your temple, you don’t think there’s much left to do. You take a second to curse all the bad choices that led you to this very moment, when your skills mean nothing in front of the possibility of losing the two people you love the most. Taking a deep breath, you close your eyes and start walking.

\--

‘Why’d you do that?’ John asks, bandaging one of your wrists. 

‘Do what?’

‘Told me that whoever I’d walk towards is gonna die. Mary said you were lying.’

‘Did she now?’ you say nonchalantly.

‘Yeah. She said you did it so if I thought of choosing you, I’d end up saving her instead.’

‘Well, Mary’s not an idiot, as opposed to other people,’ you say, not looking in his eyes.

‘Ha ha, very funny, Sherlock.’

‘I meant myself.’ You look into his eyes, as dark as the room around you, but piercing, unforgiving in their confusion. For a moment, the world stops, but then he breaks the contact, looking away and clearing his throat.

‘What’s that supposed to mean?’

‘Who would’ve you chosen, John?’

‘No one. We both knew we all would’ve died no matter what my choice was, so it has no relevance.’

‘No, I suppose it doesn’t.’ 

There’s a part of you that believes that he would’ve chosen you- believes in it so strongly, that it allowed you to say what you said. It was ridiculous, you realize, to think that you would ever be the first option.

You focus on the dull pain that the thick rope caused around your wrists, even though you barely feel a thing, and give the ritual more importance than it has, because it’s much easier to feel John around you than to have to _think_ about him. This has never happened with anyone else before, and that’s exactly why you avoid the thought, washing away the panic in the comfort that his touch, even though remote, brings you.

\--

You’ve been to war. You know that these kinds of choices don’t leave a man whole no matter which path he singles out.  
\--

Whoever came up with the little scenario in the field, they didn’t want you. They were playing sentiment. They wanted John, or perhaps…

You chase the thought away. Mary’s John’s life now. He can’t possibly lose that again.

\--

She knows that if she’d arrived in your life when Sherlock was still in it, chances are she wouldn’t be your wife now. She knows, and yet she knows that the universe is not careless enough to allow for these kinds of misfortunes, so she’s quietly proud that she’s met you at the perfect time, a pride that infuriates you and makes you adore her in the same time. She knows who you’d have chosen if the both of them were on terms of equality, if neither would’ve been advantaged by time or circumstances. She knows, and yet you still don’t know, and it drives you mad.

 

\--

‘You were about to die, how did that make you feel?’ you ask Sherlock one evening, at the end of an exhausting and mostly fruitless day. You keep thinking about that night in the field, the terror that gripped you at thinking you were going to lose both of them. You want confirmation that it was real, that you weren’t the only one who was afraid. 

‘You went to war. I thought you would know better than me,’ he replies, crashing on the sofa. ‘Plus, don’t be ridiculous, we weren’t going to die.’

‘Oh, really? What makes you so sure?’ you ask in disbelief.

‘I didn’t doubt you for one second,’ he smiles. 

The way you turned around and kicked the remote and the gun right out of the thug’s hands- you couldn’t have anticipated it, it was acting on pure preservation instinct, your sympathetic nervous system struggling to find a fast solution to save yourself, to save _them._

But Sherlock knew, of course he knew, and now he’s acting all haughty because he can’t possibly envision a version of reality where things don’t end up after his wish. Or… because he trusts you. This thought, as much as the way that he smiles, makes you feel even more confident, as if the world is your playground as long as Sherlock Holmes has confidence that you’ll always keep it clean, saving the day. You’ll happily play into the hero trope as long as it guarantees you his appreciation. It’s ridiculous, you know that, and sometimes you feel like you’re in high-school all over again, all mindless longing and bashful pride, but you can’t help it. He’s too much. He deserves it.

\--

You’re running through the muddy streets at night, followed and following, when a bullet passes two centimeters away from his right temple. You freeze for a second, your eyes glued to his; contemplate the alternative, worship the outcome. Time stills when you realize that the rosy option might not always be the one that comes alive; days flow downstream as rapid as fire, seconds gather in the past, tick-tock, tick-tock. What is alive today might be gone by tomorrow. It might be the adrenaline speaking, or maybe you’re just sick of waiting, but it suddenly dawns on you that the universe isn’t lazy, not at all. _You_ are.

‘Wait,’ you tell him twenty minutes later, still alive, heading for home in a trance. It’s evening and the alley is hidden enough; people shouldn’t talk. There’s tension buzzing through your veins, high-strung and electrifying, a swan song to this waiting game you’ve been playing for years. He looks at you; for a second, there’s confusion and disbelief, but it only takes him another blink of the eye to catch on. It’s not like you don’t always look at him like that, but now it’s focused, condensed, your longing with a life of its own; he knows the physiological signs, he can tell.

There’s nothing shy or tentative about it; you meet halfway like storms colliding. You kiss him like there’s no air left in the world and you need him to breathe, one hand resting on the nape of his neck, _yours_. When your tongues meet he makes this sound in the back of his throat and his hand in your hair clutches and _pulls_ , and you swear you want to be the one who brings him down and takes him higher than he’s ever been before, you have no idea how you’ve stayed away from him for such a long time- you’ve never kissed someone like this before, like your whole fucking life depended on it, like the universe is a thing that stopped existing and instead there’s only this, you, him. 

‘Always wanted you,’ you say between breaths. He’s got his hands cupping your face, looking at you like you’re the most precious thing he’s ever seen, not like a crime scene, but like- you, human, cherished. You always laugh at these kinds of scenes in movies, but now, with Sherlock, it all seems to make sense. _Sociopath my ass_ , you think, then kiss him again.

\--

You know he’s going to regret it, yet you can’t seem to make your brain work enough to stop. Like…cocaine, cigarettes, murder; a trigger that keeps you wanting more and more. You can pretend with the best of them, but when you let feeling slip behind your composure, it’s all gone. In those moments you’re not entirely yours anymore, and it’s both a burden and an immense relief.

It’s like Christmas when you finally get home ( _home_ , not anymore)- he pins you against the door, knee between your thighs, and takes you apart second by second. It’s not systematic, it isn’t even tender, it’s just… _John_ , as oblivious to himself as you are now; it’s almost too much information to process, his hands mouth body on you the way he grinds against you _oh fuck_ -

‘Bed, now,’ he growls, probably in response to the sound you just made- you’re not sure. You take his hand and lead him to your bedroom, try to slow things down, kneel between his legs- he looks down at you like you’ve just hit him in the face, and you can’t hold back a smirk. 

‘D’you know how many times I imagined you like this?’ he says, slipping his fingers through your hair, caressing. He sounds high. ‘Everytime I’d get off, you’d be there. On your knees, your lips around my cock. Against the wall, your back against me. Squirming. Begging.’

‘I never beg,’ you say intently, holding his gaze, barely stroking him through his jeans.

_‘Oh my god.’_

‘But I know someone who will,’ you smile, taking him out of his jeans. You love seeing him like this, gripping the sheets, making half-noises as you lick torturously slow up to the tip, with his hands in your hair but restraining himself from pulling. He’s talking, saying your name between broken syllables, holding your gaze for a while then looking away like he’s been burned, and it’s all so very John, confusion and quiet determination, that you want to tease him for hours, really make him beg just to see him like this. 

‘You’re teasing,’ he says between breaths.

‘It’s only teasing if I know what you want and I deny it to you,’ you say. ‘What do you want, John?’

‘You git,’ he laughs breathlessly. ‘You wanna hear me say it, huh?’

‘Mh-hmmmmm,’ you hum, trying to ignore the hardness in your pants, the way you’re going mad with the desire to feel him in your throat. 

‘I wanna fuck your pretty little mouth. That sounds good, hm? Want you to feel me in the back of your throat and choke on it _oh fuck-‘_

You take him in your mouth up to the base and he doesn’t hold back anymore, starts pushing up, fucking your throat with rapid moves, and this isn’t goody-two-shoes, sweater-John, this is the man who makes your blood burn through your veins more than cocaine does, the one who fucking _shot a man_ for you. The noises you make are absolutely obscene, you don’t even dare touch yourself because you know you’re gonna come on the spot. 

‘You’re wearing clothes. Why are you still wearing clothes-‘ he says, pulling out with a sudden realization and coming down on the floor to help you undress. So much for the bed. He takes both of your cocks in his hand, grinding against you harshly, and you come so hard that you’re left shaking, burying your face in his neck to muffle out the noises. He follows you, cursing loudly. You stay there for a few moments, kind of leaning against each other, listening to your heartbeats slow down.

‘I don’t think I’ve actually fucked anyone until now. I might’ve made it all up. And we didn’t even…god,’ he says when he starts regaining his voice. 

‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ you huff. ‘I’m sure Mary would be quite displeased to find out that she doesn’t actually exist.’

And with that, you feel him tense up again, his muscles rigid beneath his skin against you. You didn’t want to make it sound condescending. You didn’t want to ruin the moment, but the bitterness in your chest couldn’t be silenced.

‘Sorry,’ you whisper against his neck. You’re not sorry. 

‘Oh, shut up,’ he laughs bitterly. ‘Guess I brought this on myself, eh?’ Then, after a few seconds, ‘What the hell are we gonna do, Sherlock?’ You part, cruely brought back with your feet on the ground. There’s nothing similar to embarrassment between you anymore, but instead there is a dilemma, and you’re usually very good at solving those.

‘I have no idea,’ you say. This crime scene is easy to undo; in a couple of minutes, everything will be clean and clear again, as if nothing ever happened. You both like it dirty. You both like to keep the surface clean, though, still water to conceal what’s underneath.

There’s the human variable involved here, not him, but you, and somewhere in the back of your mind you’re aware of all the ways in which you might be distorting the situation, but sentiment blurs clear thought, makes your mind unfocus. _Perhaps he really wants you,_ your reason tells you. _After all, that’s as probable as anything else is._ But you just can’t get that thought to make a home into your heart. ‘Perhaps it would be better if we didn’t see each other anymore.’

He gives you that look, the blank confusion with a hint of disbelief, body stilled in its motions. You know it now, you know _him_ , he’s not only a permanent, underlying presence in your mind palace anymore, but a living breathing warm creature whose directions you have cartographed, and you’d like a lifetime to explore, learn about every inch of him; not from blind fascination, but for practical purposes. The places that incite the most reaction, the ways you can make his body and mind sing and burst into a million shards of colour beneath your hands, your eyes. You don’t think you will get a lifetime for that. A couple of more minutes at most. He freezes like this for a few seconds, while he’s bucking his belt; lost in thought, perhaps trying to figure out what you’re thinking. 

‘Yeah. Yeah, you’re right.’ He doesn’t look at you. ‘I’d better…leave, then.’

‘Yes, you should.’ He clears his throat, shuffling awkwardly.

‘Sherlock, I…’

‘I know. Goodbye, John.’

Your hands brush as you lead him to the door and it burns enough to make you want to never see him again, chase him away as soon as possible so you can be alone with yourself again, because sorrow is a vile mistress and she wants you all for herself. He stops twice; you can almost see how he wants to turn around and come back, but he doesn’t. He keeps walking instead, creating more distance between the two of you with every second. You briefly think of how you might never see him, taste him again. The lump in your throat turns to lead.

You know what he wanted to say. _Sherlock, I’m sorry. Sherlock, I shouldn’t have._ More pity poured out the wrong way, how he’d have looked at you like you were a hurt animal instead of a hunter disappointed, aware that nothing ever again will compare to this day, this evening when everything turned to gold.

Mycroft has repeatedly called you sentimental. He is never wrong.

\--

The street is spinning around your head, or perhaps it’s the other way around; these are the days after a fight, when you’ve seen dozens of soldiers in pain and blood and torn up skin and flesh and nothing else really matters anymore, not the cars and the noise, not your feet stumbling on the concrete, not the way you take two wrong turns or completely forget that you should have taken a taxi in the first place. It’s all décor to the story unfolding in your veins. Him, on your skin and underneath it. Years collapsed into one moment so fleeting that it seems like a dream. Too much, too fast, the way secrets stopped being secrets without use of any spoken word and then the gate was shut without a second thought, a garden in bloom to become a cemetery. It’s hateful and wrong, like towers built awry. Your blood sings for escape.

When you open the door and she waits with a gun pointed to your head, eyes cold and unfaltering, you almost feel relieved.

\--

‘Did you ever love me?’ you ask, your heart pounding in your chest with icy determination. ‘Ever.’

‘Oh, don’t be silly,’ she replies. ‘Of course I did. But that hardly matters now, doesn’t it?’

‘Look, Mary, I don’t know how you found out, or who the fuck you are to be spying on people like that, but-‘

She laughs. She isn’t the woman you know and love anymore; a lover metaphorphosed into a stranger with a bullet. ‘Do you think I didn’t know all along? You were dying to get your hands on him. It’s old news for everyone. No, this is not what it’s all about, John.’

‘Yeah? Then what is?’ you ask, starting to get impatient. She might have a gun, but you’ve taken one from the hands of stronger and better prepared men before, even without the burning rage brought by deceit. ‘Do you mind telling me why the hell are you pointing a gun towards me, or do you think it’d be all too complicated for my brain?’

‘Too late,’ she replies softly, lowering the gun down until it levels your heart. You jump to take it from her, but there’s a shot before you can reach it. A moment of surprise; first, because you hadn’t expected her to really do it, no matter what twisted game she was part of, and again it’s all unfolding too quickly, before you can grasp any shard of truth and try to stitch together a bigger picture. You are being shot by the woman you love, and as usually, you are clueless as to what’s really going on.

Secondly, because there is no pain or ceasing of consciousness, or even diminishing of it. You look down at your heart, where blood fails to have stained your shirt. Suspension of disbelief; maybe there really is a Heaven. 

You look up, notice the blood on her blouse, the terrified look in her eyes as you close the few steps between you and catch her as she collapses. Your heart stops. The pieces of the puzzle fail to fall together; this is only a finale without a plot.

Sherlock kneels down beside you, winding his fingers through her hair.

‘Good girl,’ he tells her, smiling sadly. To your surprise, she smiles back; her lips, the blood on her chest, bright red signals, but you can’t look away from the point of contact where Sherlock’s fingers meet her forehead, a feather touch to soothe. There is something passing between them in this moment, like they have known each other for a very long time, like he is Mary’s Charon and they both know this is exactly how things are meant to be. A strange sense of quiet takes over you. For just a second, you feel enthralled, absorbed by these two people, your lovers, your beloved, the pillars that made and broke your life. Then you remember that your wife is dying in your arms, shot by your best friend- _soulmate?_ \- and you start coming to your senses. Panic swells in your chest.

‘Sherlock…you…her…’

She looks at you now, her eyes still clear.

‘I do love you, you know,’ she smiles faintly, then closes her eyes. 

\--  
You knew there was something wrong, but you didn’t want it to be. Your mind is as good at uncovering truths as it is at burying them.

John looks at you with an empty expression. He’s crying, but probably doesn’t realize it, and it’s like his sadness is crawling out of the cavity of his chest and into yours, only to add to the whirlwind. You sit like this for a while, with Mary in his arms and you in his eyes. He must want to know what happened, why did she want to shoot him. You’re tempted to pity him, poor John, always caught in between, always with his heart in dangerous places, but you know that you can’t love and pity someone at the same time.

‘I want you,’ he articulates slowly, hours later, when everything has quieted down,‘to leave me alone. Now. And forever. Stay away from me, Sherlock, do you understand?’ He sounds determined, but his eyes tell a different story.

You don’t understand. Your heart clutches itself into a small, pitiful object, a stranger in your chest beating to come out. 

‘Yes,’ you reply, because you feel that the moment requires it. You don’t understand anything else.

\--

They decide that the crime was righteous defense, with a bit of help from Mycroft. You expose the entire case in court: how Mary was working for Sebastian Moran, only getting close to John to get to you. Moran suspected that you were alive and assumed that at some point, you’d go back to John, so he hired her to keep an eye on what was happening. Unfortunately, Mary fell in love with John and she refused to comply with her boss’ orders anymore, which was what the little game with the fieldmines had been all about. Moran had wanted to prove Mary that John cared more about you than he cared about her. He had completely missed the point: she already knew.

In the end, she’d broken down under his pressures. You don’t mention how they’d been filming you and John that evening, how she’d seen everything. The tape is still out there, waiting to be exposed. You would make it your next mission to recover it, that is if you cared. You don’t care. Let the whole world know.

Was killing John a mission Mary had received, or an impulsive act, sprung from the impossibility to be with the one she loved? Was death a better alternative to love? You don’t know, and of course, the audience doesn’t know either. John would tell you that you’re being dramatic, but he is only an absent attendant to the trial, a portrait of neutrality as he speaks.

He doesn’t look at you.

You don’t dare approach him at the end. You watch him exit the building, take a cab to an empty home once again. Last time, too, you were the author of his loneliness, the one who destructured his life, leaving him raw and open. But you’re alive now. God, you’re alive.

\--

The kitchen table, where the sunlight falls in the morning through the checkered pattern of the window gate. You had her here once, in your second day after moving in. The sink, where you would fight about who’d do the dishes. The tiny room upstairs, used as a deposit room, but soon to become your first child’s bedroom.

The floor, unswept for a few days. Clean. There was no one here to disturb the dust. You’re living at Mike’s until you find a new place, swimming through the oblivion of yet another loss. Another betrayal.

You could do this your whole life, you think. Jumping from the bed of one psychopath to another’s, finding a new nest whenever they change into death or some other kind of life. You know what’s wrong here. It’s you, always in search for something more. You think you enjoy the thrill of it, the unpredictability; the possibility of losing the ones you love at any time, because you only love the ones who are most prone to be lost. It might be a disease, it might kill you or leave you crippled, but isn’t it all too sweet to deny?

You throw up on the bathroom floor, thinking of her blood on your hands. The next day, you’ve already sold the house.

\--

You wait two weeks until you give any sign of life. It should be enough time, you think. You suppose. You have no idea, really, about how these things work, except that after the wedding you kind of do. It took him two years to get over your death, but you don’t have that kind of time now.

His new place is a cozy apartment towards the edge of the city. Tedious, really, the way he chose to be away from where everything happens, exchanging life for a set of identical grey blocks where there’s nothing more interesting than the hum of the news channel set on minimum or the neighbours’ hystericals. Or crime, perhaps, there’s that deserted factory nearby, that could be an interesting prospective. Some distant part of you is afraid that it’s too early, but…two weeks. Isn’t that enough time to sulk? Doesn’t he understand that _you_ , you’re alive and there’s no reason to let a ghost ruin this?

The bell rings.

He opens up, still wearing his pajamas even though it’s midday. There are dark circles under his eyes, a blank expression greeting you from another world. You think you’re letting pity slip out through your mask, even though you wish you wouldn’t.

‘John,’ you say.

‘I thought I told you,’ he says on a raspy voice, then clears his throat. ‘I thought I told you to leave me alone.’

‘Too early?’ you ask, shuffling awkwardly on your feet. Your hands are clasped tight at your back. There is no danger of them straying out.

‘It is always,’ he says, ‘going to be too early, Sherlock.’

You wish you had something to say, something more than words, but nothing comes up. You could make polite conversation. You could get to the heart of the problem. _I want to be there when you mourn. I want to be there when you need me. Please need me._

You leave, too petrified to say goodbye.

\--

The way he looks at you, with barely hidden pity and that quiet sadness in his eyes- he might be hiding hurricanes beneath that blue, and you’ve always wondered how deep his waters run. Somehow, you’d prefer if they were nothing more than they give, calculated calm and precision. As you were foolish enough to think back then, when you’d have imagined anything else about Sherlock Holmes besides him hiding drugs in his apartment, yet you were proven wrong. Sometimes you really wish it were that simple. You wish you were that simple.

You slump back into the couch and go back to watching the telly, stacking the distraction of him being here in a hidden corner of your mind. It might as well rot there. You’re done with the drama.  
\--

Three weeks. Four. Baker street is emptier that it used to be when he lived with Mary. At least he didn’t have a choice back then. Now he does, and he is doing nothing about it, and it’s somehow ironic, isn’t it? How, for a brief time, you thought that him being single again would be enough to guarantee something, even though you’d had years of evidence that it didn’t. How he only wanted you when it was wrong.

You get lost in petty murders and the occasional demanding case, in cigarettes, in cocaine, anything to make the days flow faster. What are you rushing towards? Yeah, there’s an aim, a final destination, but he has exiled you. There are no other gates to open, nothing new, lest you want the waters to flood you.

You decide that you might just want that. You kiss a sturdy soldier in the back of an obscure nightclub and you let him take you home, you let yourself be taken apart without any tenderness. Like an addict in need of a fix. The man looks like John enough for you to pretend that it’s him pulling your hair, curling his fingers inside you, fucking you rough and unrestrained. You feel like a heart-broken cliché by the time you’re leaving, barely holding yourself straight as you walk home. You feel spent, satisfied and empty. You think of him seeing you like this, knowing that you were in someone else’s bed. He could read it in your eyes, in your tousled hair, in your walk. You imagine him taking you home and claiming you his own with vengeful fury. You imagine him taking you home and erasing the night’s shortcomings with an affection that you don’t deserve. Each scenario is equally frightening and you want it so much that your hands are shaking on the door handle, turning the lights on, washing yourself clean. It’s all precipitated, dissolved beneath the neon light into neurotic desire and an affection beyond your understanding, the kind of thing that you were taught to bury deep and never reveal to others. You’ve hid it so well that you’ve concealed it from yourself, too, until the right moment came and it surfaced, hitting you hard enough to destroy.

‘What has become of you?’ Mycroft asks when he comes to visit, his presence made inevitable by Ms Hudson’s mindless hospitality. You would’ve slammed the door right in his face.

On the tone he’s saying it, it sounds like an insult. Like what he’s trying to say is, _You’re becoming human. Stop._

And a part of you wishes you could just listen to him and make things easy again, like when you were a child and he baited you out of your hiding places telling you how the east wind takes the frightened ones first, how feeling makes you less awake, less prepared. _Less._ It was easy back then, taming down sentiment and holding it tightly, only letting it surface when you were too desperate and you had to: give yourself to the urgency of unknown hands in foreign alleys, shut yourself in your apartment and get high, or dance. Dancing was always the mildest version of it, and you’ve fooled yourself into believing there was nothing but mathematic precision in the smooth flow of movement dissolving into movement until you first danced with someone who really mattered, and you found your heart again.

There’s nothing but contempt for this small man sitting in front of you with the world at his feet, as if he’s the one who owns it. He might. But he is done owning you.

‘Nothing you could ever understand, brother of mine.’

There’s concern in his eyes as he walks out the door you’re keeping open for him, but that’s none of your business anymore.

\--

You immerse yourself in your work and waste the rest of the day until it starts becoming less and less unbearable. Like a weight you’ve been carrying on your shoulders for days and it stopped being a hindrance, because it’s already a part of you. Life has become this clean, simple thing, divided between work and telly. You read sometimes and you go out in the weekends with a bunch of old friends who make you feel like a normal person again. Average. Content.

Eventually, you meet someone. Her name is Tara. She’s a small brunette with an unruly bob and fast, darting eyes. She works as a pedicurist. She loves basketball, How I Met Your Mother and talking a lot. She’s young and superficial and almost too much at times, but the sex is amazing. You honestly can’t tell what she sees in you, but you’re not wondering much. You just let the days flow, let her drag you out of the house to bars and movies and even out of town for a few times until you find your desire again. She loves traveling, wants to raise enough money to move to Spain, where some relatives of hers live. You think of going with her, starting it all again. Why not? There’s nothing waiting for you here.

She leaves you after two months. You read about it on her blog, how she managed to cross ‘being with someone famous’ off her to-do list, right after ‘kissing in Paris’ and before ‘flying a parachute’. You laugh quietly. You don’t feel bitter at all. She was good for you while it lasted.

Then there’s Stephanie, the paramedic, and Loraine, her best friend. Half of year. It passes like a dream, the time you spend with them, like there’s a radio show running and you’re somewhere in the background, not transmitting, not hearing anything but steady, comfortable noise. Like you’re missing out on something, but you couldn’t care less, because there is no home more welcoming than oblivion. 

\--

You give up calling and knocking at his door after the second month. You’ve only tried both things twice, but it already feels like you’ve crossed a line, stepping into a space where you’re not wanted anymore.

His absence expands, constricting your space and growing roots. Your mind is as sharp as always, but you feel your heart growing thin.  
\--

You avoid looking at people who remind you of him. A blasphemous thought, a persistent shadow that you can always see in the corner of your eye, yet never choose to mind. 

You dream of biting his lips bloody, holding those narrow hips as you crowd him against the wall back at Baker Street, rubbing against him with no mercy and letting your fury transpire through the way you pull his hair, the way you kiss into him like you’re burning Rome down. You’re his forbidden city, the one he destroyed and reconstructed, walking the streets like a king in search for his fool, but none of it matters now, when he’s lying bare beneath you and you’ve broken his pretty voice into adoring you. These nights, you wake up sweaty in an empty bed, with blurred lines between dream and imagination. You get off thinking of his lips around your cock.

You expect it to fade with time. You expect your nights to be more and more peaceful, because the cold thrill of absence shouldn’t leave any ground for these images to thrive.

Neither of these things happen. 

\--

When the message arrives, it’s been almost a year.

_John, Baker Street. Now. You’re gonna like it._

It’s unexpected, like an earthquake on a quiet summer day. Your heart suddenly jumps in your chest, making the day’s work seem trivial. You rub your palms together; they’re sweaty, as if they’re trying to tell you: _this, too, will slip away._ It’s not like you couldn’t last any longer, it’s not like you terribly miss him. In fact, a part of you is reluctant to respond, outraged at the way he still seems to believe that you’re at his beck and call, attached to the comfortable predictability that your life has slipped into. But at the same time, after the initial shock wears off, you realize that you’re dying of curiosity to see what’s happening. You wonder what crazy experiment he wants to show you, cut-off toes and all that, or perhaps it’s an urgent case and he’ll have you running around town again, like the old times. As if nothing ever happened, because that’s just how Sherlock works, isn’t it?

Part of you misses him like hell. Part of you would jump to hug him if you saw him right now, but luckily, that part is quieted down by shock. You didn’t really think he’d stay away forever, did you?

You’re not wrong; he acts like he’s last seen you yesterday instead of one year ago. He storms out of the apartment as soon as you get there, grabbing you by the coat and shouting for a taxi. He only looks outside the window during the five-minute trip; you only look at him. His hair is shorter. The curve of his chin, his cheekbones, his long neck, sheltered by the collar of his coat- they’re all unchanged, and you wish you could see his eyes, show him yours so he can see how all the rage melted into affection. You think you could hug him right now. Of course, things aren’t that simple, so you don’t.

You take taxis from house to house, searching all four corners of London for anything that could lead you to the main suspect for the murder, a twenty-old chambermaid, as Sherlock promises. You only talk about the case, exchanging looks sometimes, but mostly avoiding each other’s gaze. He’s a bit slower, a bit more unfocused. It makes you wonder whether you became an opaque distraction instead of a conductor of light. Of course, you’re probably being too audacious to think that this could be about you.

When he’s put the pieces together, you find her in an abandoned building, reading a book with a cover that is too worn-out to keep the title readable. She looks up at both of you with wide, curious eyes, adorned by dark circles underneath. Her frail frame and her washed blonde hair give you the impression that you’re looking at a child.

‘Hello,’ you try. You need human contact, some semblance of warmth to make you forget about the distance between the two of you.

‘Hi,’ she says weakly. ‘Well,I guess that’s that…’ She sighs, placing her book face-down on the dirty floor. ‘It’s a horrible book,’ she smiles, having noticed your gaze. ‘Did she ask about me?’

‘Pardon me, who-‘

‘Yes. Twice.’

You both speak at the same time, your voices merging into a hollow echo. You look at him expectantly; it’s almost comfortable, slipping back into the role, giving him the occasion to shine.

‘The landlady, of course,’ he starts. ‘Classic chambermaid romance. She killed her landlord because she was in love with his wife. She wanted to protect her from him. He was becoming more and more abusive, isn’t that so?’

The girl nods with utmost seriousness.

‘But that isn’t all. She didn’t want her to find out, so she arranged a fictive business trip, from which he’d only return in a few years. Only that he was never going to. He’d send a letter, explaining that he found someone else, but by that time his wife already got over him. The perfect plan, if it weren’t for the fingerprints. Typical mistake for an unexperienced criminal,’ he explains, not without his usual smugness.

‘You’re Sherlock Holmes, aren’t you? And John Watson,’ the girl says. You wonder if she’s on something; she looks like she’s in a completely different world. ‘I’ve read about you.’

‘Were you aware that the poison you used only has a forty percent chance of working?’ Sherlock asks, oblivious to her comment.

‘I don’t believe in statistics,’ she smiles. ‘It will happen when it happens.’

‘You obviously don’t, or else you wouldn’t have taken such puerile risks,’ he huffs. 

‘Oi, don’t be like that,’ you snap. You supposed the time would come when you’d take the defense of the criminal instead of Sherlock’s, because he’s simply that annoying. Is he implying something, bringing you along for this particular case? You clench your fists at your sides, trying to calm down. You should’ve known. Things are never easy when it comes to Sherlock. ‘You solved your case, now let’s go.’ 

 

He looks at you, confusion, then exasperation visible on his face. ‘I was simply trying to point out her innocence, despite the committed crime,’ he says.

‘Oh. Were you now?’ you ask, half skeptical and half amazed, because overtly pointing out the good parts of someone is hardly characteristic of Sherlock, especially if said someone is a murderer.

‘Obviously, John. She merely wanted to protect the one she loved, although it could be said that murder was an exaggerated measure in her case. But ultimately, her heart… was in the right place.’ He makes a small grimace, as if struggling to get the words out. You know how that works, you know that being sincere doesn’t come easy to either of you, but you’re too baffled to acknowledge it. Is he apologizing? Does he mean it, or is this just another game?

‘Thank you,’ the girl smiles at Sherlock, failing to realize that this was never about her. 

‘Let’s go home,’ Sherlock says, heading towards the exit without looking you in the eye. ‘This case is closed.’

He calls Lestrade and in an hour you’re back on Baker Street. He doesn’t question your destination, doesn’t even consider that you might want to go back to your apartment. _Home._ Does he even know that you’re not living together anymore? You’re silent for the whole ride. He opens the door for you when you get to 221B, holding it while you step in. He’s got that hurt deer look in his eyes, the one that gets to you every time, and the fact that you’re back in this place doesn’t help at all. It’s all ridden with past moments, heavy with their poison.

_That evening, in the hallway, lightning field. You’d never felt more alive; it was better than war, the look in his eyes making your blood sing with something hard to define, like water slipping through your fingers-_

And that other evening, when suddenly you managed to close your palm and hold it there, for the briefest of second-

But more than that, the anger, the undefinable anger of being here right now, as if you truly wanted it, and furthermore, the dangerous thought that maybe, just maybe it’s really what you desire. Behind it there’s the grief for her, the confusion, the hurt, silent beneath your skin, yet digging a steady riverbank. _What do you want from me?_

‘Okay, what was all that about?’ you ask when he closes the door behind you. 

‘What was what?’ he asks, furrowing his eyebrows.

‘Why did you bring me along for this specific case? Are you making fun of me?’

‘Don’t be ridiculous, John. Why would I?’

You climb the stairs, keeping your voices low.

‘Now don’t be…’ You stop, looking at him, at his indignation. ‘You really have no clue, do you?’

‘Clue? Of course I have a clue. I always have a clue.’ He definitely looks like he has no clue.

‘Yeah?’ you raise your eyebrow. ‘So, what am I thinking about now?’ You’re inside the apartment now. Sherlock lights up the lamp on the table, a tender light that gives the same atmosphere of intimacy that you’ve been used to, as if nothing’s changed. It doesn’t feel right, being here, in this place that you’ve tried to deny with all your being for the last months. It doesn’t feel right, precisely because it does.

‘You’re thinking that I’m insulting you by comparing you to a murderer. I should’ve known you wouldn’t catch on. You’re thinking of your memories here, with me. I know I’m not the only one associating stimuli with past happenings, John, even though you do seem to see them from a more emotional perspective.’ He’s looking straight at you and you realize that he’s been following your gaze as it lingered on the bookshelf, on his violin case, on the sofa…

‘Wrong,’ you swallow, trying to sound confident. ‘About that first thing. I don’t think you were trying to compare me with a murderer. I think you were trying to compare me with a desperate, delusional young woman, who conveniently happened to be gay, when obviously she resembled you more than anyone else.’

‘Wrong,’ Sherlock replies, taking steps towards you. He sighs audibly. ‘I really shouldn’t have…’

‘Shouldn’t have what?’ You’re standing in front of each other now, almost touching. Neither of you look away.

‘Shouldn’t have overestimated you,’ he says, one corner of his mouth turning upwards, obviously enjoying himself. Something inside you bursts. You feel like your whole system has been waiting for this moment for a long, long time, careful restraint to be opened into reckless abandon.

‘You bastard,’ you growl, pulling him by his collar into an open-mouthed kiss. He groans at the contact, capturing your body between his and the door. The roughness of it feels familiar, it hits home even though you’ve only did this once before; you fit so well with each other, you fit so well with this terrible man who crashed into your life right on time to save it. Your hands stay on his neck and for the briefest of moments, you feel like hurting him, but there’s a bigger picture here, there’s something that goes beyond disaster and murder and revenge, or so you like to think. To _feel_. You’re not sure if you can make up for months of distance in one single minute, but you sure as hell are trying to. 

After the violent rush subsides you become aware of all the points of contact between you, of how much you’ve missed this closeness that lights you up no matter if it’s a supernova explosion or a quiet star imploding. It morphs more into the latter now, when you stop once in a while to look in each other’s eyes, guessing more than seeing, taking your time for a gentleness that you haven’t allowed yourselves before.

‘The chambermaid. You were right. She was me,’ he says, resting your forehead against yours.

‘Yeah?’ you whisper, catching your breath.

‘Obviously,’ he says. ‘But you were her heart. I… don’t know what would’ve become of me if I didn’t meet you, John. Perhaps I would’ve ended up in an abandoned building too. Alone. Delusional. You made me believe that I could have a heart, and I think it might’ve caught on,’ he says. The hint of drama in his tone, the way he can only be sincere while pretending…it makes your chest ache with affection. ’She was me, but her kindness is something I’d never hoped to have until I met you.’

‘And you somehow knew of this analogy before you even started working on the case?’ you ask, smiling.

‘Of course,’ he replies. ‘All the clues were there. But I wouldn’t have deduced it so easily if you hadn’t taught me…’ He falters, looking away.

‘Yeah?’

‘Oh, whatever, you know what I mean,’ he bursts, making you laugh. He’s smiling too, the creases of his eyes speaking joy, that rare feeling that he saves for extraordinary cases and you, you.

‘God, I missed you so much,’ you say, hugging him.

\--

It’s warm and unexpected, the way he wraps his arms around you. You feel shielded, secure; you give in to the feeling, hugging him back. You remember your childhood days, trying to hug Mycroft only to get rejected every time, or at best hugged back with a cold, automatic gesture. Your parents were never too fond of physical displays of affection; they, too, lived more in their minds than in their bodies. After years of draught, you feel like something just gave in, _tear down the wall_ and all that, and now you’re overflowing. 

‘Sherlock? Are you crying?’

You haven’t even noticed the moisture in your eyes. You blink twice until you no longer see John in bokeh.

‘Crying? I’m not _crying_ ,’ you huff. ‘I might be shedding tears, but they’re merely chemical reactions to external stimuli. I’m… cleaning my eyes.’

‘Yeah? Don’t like what you see?’ he laughs, his hand lingering on your neck. ‘You can talk to me, Sherlock,’ he adds on a more serious tone, trying to catch your eyes. 

‘I don’t…want…to talk,’ you say, still not looking at him. You can’t believe it, you _won’t_ \- that there’s a place carved out in this world for you, that there’s a space where you’re appreciated and loved, and not by anyone, but by the man you hold the dearest. You wouldn’t have dared to think about this. You didn’t believe that it was a possibility that could bloom into concrete.

‘I’m sorry,’ he speaks. He’s so close that you could believe that he’s you, that there’s no limit between where you end and where he begins. ‘For…not managing myself better, back then, and leaving afterwards. I knew it’d hurt you. I was selfish.’

‘I wanted it too,’ you reply, your voice as soft as his.

‘But you were allowed to. I wasn’t. I’d made my choice.’

‘Changes of heart. They happen,’ you say.

‘No. No, they don’t,’ he replies, looking at you. ‘My heart was always in the right place, since the day I saw you. There are some things that never change.’

 _‘The still point of the turning world,’_ you murmur without thinking.

‘Didn’t you delete poetry? I thought you believed that it was useless,’ he says, smiling.

‘Yeah. I thought that too,’ you reply, ’but I suppose some things do change.’ You smile at him, not holding back anymore, anchoring yourself to this centre, to this moment that, whatever form may take, will always remain the same. Sure, there’s grief behind you, maybe too much, and God knows what lies ahead, but this, right now- this is perfect. There is nothing in your heart but a silence that swallows past mistakes and floods you with a love you never want to forfeit. It’s too much, too heavy for words.

‘Welcome home, John,’ you say, leaning down to kiss him.

**Author's Note:**

> Okay so I hope that the constant shift of perspectives wasn't too confusing. I love writing in second person!  
> If you somehow read this whole thing, I wouldn't mind a tiny comment:3


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